


child of the moon, how you sing to me

by guanxi



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Divorce, Falling In Love, Family Issues, Getting Together, Growing Up, Kuroo Transfers to Karasuno, Losing Touch, M/M, Single Parents, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Summer Romance, Time Skips, mature rating is for after tsukki graduates from high school
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:07:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27063157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guanxi/pseuds/guanxi
Summary: The curl of Kuroo’s lip is fierce as he says, “Yeah, well. I do like girls with long hair.”Tsukishima nods, his mouth a desert. “Right.”Kuroo’s tongue pokes out to lick the corner of his lip, agonizingly slow. “And boys, too, if they’re tall.” His bright, golden eyes seem fixed on Tsukishima’s darker ones, but the edges are soft with caution, gauging his reaction, as if to say that what Tsukishima thinks of him matters.“Oh,” Tsukishima manages. He feels as though the breath has been knocked out of him, and his chest burns with each rise and fall. His muscles are still tense from practice, and his exhaustion is so palpable he feels lightheaded. Yet, the accelerated beat of his heart, the gentle buzz underneath his skin, has little to do with physical exertion. He swallows, and Kuroo follows the movement of his Adam’s apple with his eyes. “Cool.”
Relationships: Kuroo Tetsurou/Tsukishima Kei
Comments: 25
Kudos: 84





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello! thank you so much for deciding to read this! while i loosely follow canon sequences, such as the training camp, most of my story deviates quite a bit. to start with, kuroo transfers to karasuno, which completely changes the dynamic of both karasuno's and nekoma's volleyball teams, which in turn shifts what comes after. i've written a lot of this fic already, and i'll update it every friday (i might update more or less often, depending on my schedule - i'm a full-time college student!! i apologize if i'm inconsistent but i hope you'll stick around!) 
> 
> thank you so much to [bear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanxie/pseuds/kanxie) and [anika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dharmic/pseuds/dharmic) for beta-ing this fic! any mistakes you find will be from me making changes after the fact.
> 
> listen to [this playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1Bny82EAKrxwRFTS8zH8L4?si=_KWJMpa2RKyHuYnVWxID5A) while you read! i made it specifically for this fic :)
> 
> if you would like to follow me, i have a [twitter](https://twitter.com/iwaizuumis) !!
> 
> and finally, enjoy! any and all comments are HUGELY appreciated!

Tsukishima walks into his kitchen early that morning, still in the threadbare cotton shirt he likes to sleep in, his hair in a blustery state of disarray. He presses the back of his hand onto his closed eyelids in an attempt to rub away the sleep and tiredness marring his face, glasses clasped in his other fist. Slowly, he slips his glasses onto his face, and, blinking through the bleary lenses, sees his mother at the stove, frying pan in hand.

“Good morning,” she says, turning her head at the light tread of his feet, meeting his eyes with a soft smile on her gentle face. “I’m making eggs. Do you want some?”

Tsukishima hardly ever eats breakfast. Thinking about food so early in the morning makes his stomach turn, but nothing twists his gut in quite the same way as the look on his mother’s face every time he says no. So, he acquiesces, “Just one.”

She hums, turning back to the stove. The _crack_ of the split eggshell reverberates in the quiet din of the open kitchen as Tsukishima crosses his legs, settling into the _tatami_ mat underneath the dining table. A moment later, his mother plates the egg, the yolk cooked all the way through, just the way he likes it. “Rice?”

Tsukishima shakes his head. She sets her own bowl beside his, and they pick up their chopsticks to eat. “Thank you for the food,” he says, and receives another one of her faint, but frequent, smiles.

“Tryouts are today, aren’t they?” His mother asks between mouthfuls of egg and rice. Tsukishima nods, chewing carefully. “Are you nervous?”

“No,” Tsukishima replies. “Karasuno doesn’t have a very strong team anymore. I doubt many guys are going to try out, and I’m tall enough for it to matter.”

“You are, aren’t you? Only fifteen and already taller than Aki!” Tsukishima doesn’t respond. His breath is halting as it leaves his nose. 

His mother continues, “My golden boy. You’re growing up.” 

She sighs, setting her bowl down on the table. She leans against Tsukishima, places a feather-light kiss on the apple of his cheek. When she scoots back, Tsukishima notices, perhaps for the first time, the fine lines on her face by her lips and warm brown eyes—a roadmap of delicate, jagged skin—and the way her blonde hair seems thinner, flatter than it has ever been over her shoulders. She’s so beautiful, but she’s getting older, and the terrifying thought of losing her suddenly consumes him.

He bites into the last piece of his egg, standing up as he does so. He eases his bowl into the sink, and as he walks past his mother, he says, “I love you. See you after school.”

He goes into his room to change.

***

Tsukishima is one of the last people to walk into the school gym that afternoon. It’s just past four o’clock, but he’s drained; it’s the kind of exhaustion that goes past simple tiredness. It’s the kind that seeps into every stitch of your frame, clouding your vision and bringing a wobble to your step. School is taking more out of him than he could have anticipated; high school isn’t supposed to be this hard.

The sight of the gym draws a soundless dread into his system. He’s not sure he can make it the full two hours without collapsing. What he needs right now is green tea and a profound, uninterrupted nap, but he can’t go home yet. His mother will have expected him to attend practice, at the very least, and so, he pushes on.

He finds Yamaguchi near the sidelines, his skin washed out under the bright white lights, freckles scattered and stark. A little ways away is Hinata, the annoying, loud redhead he recognizes from the first week of class. Everyone else, it seems, is a second or third year, and just as he had predicted earlier that morning, none are quite as tall as he is.

One of the boys, somewhat short and plain, steps forward as Tsukishima is setting his bag down. He’s in a black athletic jumper with _Karasuno_ stitched in white onto the right breast, the strokes grainy yet neat. “Hey, everyone. I’m Sawamura Daichi, your captain. I’m a third year, in class four.” Tsukishima watches as the rest of the boys line up in front of Sawamura, so he follows. “If you’re here now, congrats, you’re in. We don’t have a coach, and we don’t have enough guys trying out to make any cuts.”

He then gestures to a pretty girl in glasses, her inky black hair pulled into a loose ponytail. “This is Shimizu Kiyoko, our manager.” She nods at the boys in greeting, but her doll-like mouth doesn’t morph into a smile, nor does she say anything. Her eyes, however, are wide and sincere as they, in turn, regard each boy, and the effect she has is immediate. The bald one beside Sawamura, with the thin, severe eyebrows, looks lightheaded, like he’s moments away from passing out. The shrimpy boy with the blonde streak in his hair is hardly doing any better. 

“Takeda Ittetsu, one of the Japanese Literature teachers, is our faculty advisor, but he’s not here right now. He has little experience when it comes to volleyball, but he works hard at organizing games so we can practice and improve,” says Sawamura.

Sawamura is cut short by the resounding _bang_ of the gym doors slamming open. In walk two boys, one after another. Tsukishima is instantly drawn to the boy he identifies as Kageyama Tobio, and he narrows his eyes at the way he stalks in, both careless and careful. The air around him is charged, as if he’d been struck by lightning, only to absorb the jolt into his skin. He’s thrumming all over, the same way he had been in middle school, when Tsukishima had gone to watch him play.

The boy that emerges behind Kageyama is tall, nearly as tall as Tsukishima, and the effect is heightened by his shock of spiky black hair. The squeak of his obnoxious red shoes echoes through the gym, which is uncharacteristically silent. It is as though the boys are all holding their breaths; suspended, waiting. 

“Oh,” says Sawamura, “I was hoping you two would show up.”

The two boys line up beside the rest. Kageyama stands right next to Tsukishima at the end of the line, his gaze steadfast and his back straight, as stoic as Tsukishima would expect. It almost makes him laugh, the way Kageyama is so serious amidst this joke of a team, but he keeps his mouth shut.

“I want everyone to feel at home, of course, especially you first years,” continues Sawamura, “but please help me welcome Kuroo Tetsurou. He just transferred from Nekoma High during his third year, which must be especially tough.”

Kuroo inclines his head, and Tsukishima is immediately bothered by the weird, intense curl of his mouth. “Thank you, Sawamura, but that’s not necessary. I’m just here to play like everyone else, aren’t I?”

Sawamura nods, his smile small but genuine. “We’re happy to have you. All of you,” he says, speaking to the paltry group of less than ten boys. There are murmurs of assent as the lineup steadily disperses, most of the boys reaching for their water bottles or tying their shoelaces.

Yamaguchi looks jittery and uncomfortable beside Tsukishima, his cowlick wilder than he’s ever seen it. “Why would you ever come to Karasuno when you went to _Nekoma_ , for Christ’s sake? Is he crazy or something?” He sputters.

Kuroo, thankfully, doesn’t hear Yamaguchi, but Kageyama does as he walks in their direction. “We could benefit from his experience playing on an elite team,” he says, simple and matter-of-fact.

“Oh, an _elite_ team, huh? You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Your Majesty?” Tsukishima relishes in the electrifyingly sharp twitch of Kageyama’s eye. The words that leave his mouth have his body buzzing, strangely tight amidst the sudden surge of adrenaline. He shakes his arms to loosen the building tension coiled within him.

Kuroo, who hadn’t quite wandered away from the greater group, blinks, as if seeing Tsukishima for the first time. “Did you just call him ‘Your Majesty’?”

“Well,” says Tsukishima, his eyes flickering from Kuroo to Kageyama, “isn’t that what all your little friends back at Kitagawa Daiichi called you,” Tsukishima asserts, his mocking gaze fixed on Kageyama’s dark, immovable form, “Your Highness?” 

Kuroo takes a step back, his smile a funny thing on his face. “How do you know all that? Did you do research on him, or something?”

Tsukishima clears his throat, his eyebrows furrowed in both confusion and embarrassment. His mouth pulls into an ugly red sneer as he regards Kuroo, “What do you mean, ‘all that’? Everyone knows Kageyama Tobio, King of the Court!”

“Don’t call me that,” Kageyama grits out, his eyes two blue pinpricks of rage. Tsukishima grins.

“For the record,” Kuroo says, “I didn’t know that. And Kageyama, what are you so angry about? Isn’t it kind of cool to be known as a king?”

“I think dictator is a more apt description,” adds Tsukishima.

Kageyama frowns, and Kuroo stops moving altogether, his head tilted to the right as his pale eyes size up Tsukishima.

“Right,” says Yamaguchi, tugging on Tsukishima’s arm, “that’s enough. We gotta start warm ups.” 

“Whatever,” says Tsukishima. He can still feel Kuroo’s curious eyes on him as he crosses one long arm over his chest, pulling gently on his shoulder to loosen it. Tsukishima, however, keeps his eyes planted firmly on Kageyama, who is languidly stretching out his legs, already at home in the enormous empty space of the gym. 

“When you’re done stretching,” calls out Sawamura, “we’ll start with blocking drills. Everyone familiar with two- and three-step blocking?”

Hinata, his eyes wide in that perpetually perplexed way of his, shouts, “What’s that?”

Sawamura’s face seems to be at war with itself, flitting through an entire host of conflicting emotions before settling on something between a pained smile and grimace. “Kuroo,” he says, “you’re an experienced middle blocker. Mind helping him out?” 

_Huh_ , thinks Tsukishima, _there goes all hope of me becoming the starting middle blocker._ He can’t believe he’s letting himself think this way, but his confidence is already crumbling. He hates himself for it, because he doesn’t care, but he _does_ , and it’s such a confusing mix of emotion that he shoves it to the very recesses of his mind. He’ll come back to it when there’s less noise, less people, less everything.

While the rest of the boys shakily begin the drill under Sawamura’s instruction, Kuroo takes Hinata aside to the far end of the net, working through the footwork at a pace he will understand and more readily absorb. 

Tsukishima gets lost in the monotonous repetition of the drill. Right foot, left foot, swing arms back, right foot, swing arms forward, _jump_ ; over and over until he can feel it in his ribs, in the joints of his knees as he lands with a dull _thud._ He uses one hand to wipe at the sweat that’s trailing through his eyebrows and temples, faltering once again to the back of the line.

The abrupt screech of Hinata’s voice cuts through the air like a machete demolishing wet wood. Tsukishima’s neck nearly snaps as his head jerks swiftly towards the noise. “I did it,” screams Hinata, “My legs! They went like—” Hinata launches into a complicated routine of hand gestures and nonsensical babble, eliciting a laugh from Kuroo, before finishing with, “My entire forearm went over the net! Just like that! And I didn’t even touch the tape this time! Kuroo, you’re the coolest!”

Tsukishima and Kuroo lock eyes, and Kuroo smiles, wide and cat-like, somewhat lopsided with one end of his mouth higher than the other. The gleam in his eye is competitive, challenging, as if to say _I see you._

Tsukishima looks at Kageyama, who is watching Hinata with this strange twist to his mouth, almost like he’s angry, before he meets Kuroo’s eyes once more. _Okay, Kuroo. You’re on._


	2. Chapter 2

At ten years old, volleyball was to Tsukishima what water is to the scorched earth; he lived and breathed it, and it exalted him, simply because it seemed to affect Akiteru in the same way. Whatever Akiteru did, Tsukishima was inclined to do, as well—such was the unconditional adoration of a younger brother to his perceived mentor. But, children grow up, and reality, unfortunately, always comes hurtling through; an unstoppable disaster of a collision course.

Practice that afternoon, a month into the season, is one such encounter, the kind that singes your hair and leaves soot on your skin. He feels himself rushing forward, on and on and on, even as he loses feeling in his fingers and toes. He’s running on empty, but he can’t stop, because he has something to prove.

Kageyama serves again, and the ball crackles in the air, a straight, fatal cannon over the net. The thunderous sound of impact, first against Kageyama’s palm, then Nishinoya’s forearms as he receives, rings in Tsukishima’s ears, an alarm bell through a vast blue ocean. Sweat pools at the rims of his sports goggles, runs over his upper lip and onto his tongue; the tang of salt, however, is imperceptible in his mouth among the impossible racket of the gym.

Sugawara stands ready with each elbow bent, fingers spread in the loose shape of a triangle. The set he delivers is seamless, if a little low, and Tsukishima begins his approach.  _ It’s mine _ .

Azumane leaps into the air, the blue and yellow ball a stark reflection in his dark irises as he smashes down on it. The ball grazes Kuroo’s index and middle fingers on the other side of the net, his attempt at a single block evaded. A point is won, just like that. 

Azumane roars, his smarting fist raised in the air. Sugawara closes his arm around Azumane’s shoulders in congratulations, and even Kuroo, who had just had a point wrenched out of his hands, offers a beaming smile. Only Tsukishima can’t seem to make his legs move, and it’s not simply because they’re sore. The play is on a running loop in his head; he sees the ball spin out of his grasp, once, twice, again, again,  _ again _ . 

It’s fine. He doesn’t care.

Hinata rolls the ball under the net, over to Sugawara. Sugawara’s serve isn’t quite the missile Kageyama’s is, but it’s consistent, and it lands comfortably in the back row, right between Tanaka and Sawamura. Sawamura’s pass is clean, as is Kageyama’s subsequent set, and Tsukishima is on high alert as he watches both the ball and Kuroo’s feet, frantic in their approach.

He jumps, as does Kuroo, and the ball is suddenly clamped between both of their bruised fingers. Tsukishima is suspended in midair for less than a second, but it’s an uneasy eternity as Kuroo jostles the ball towards Tsukishima, only to have it shoved back harder. 

Tsukishima’s landing is less than spectacular, but he pays it no mind, because he just won the joust. Against Kuroo. Kuroo, who is infinitely better than he is. Kuroo, whom he has no hope of surpassing as starting middle blocker. The victory is small, but Tsukishima feels it deep in his gut, this fluid tendril of ecstasy, before it fades.

“Nice one,  _ Tsukki _ ,” jabs Kuroo, flashing that enormous, infuriating smile.

Tsukishima scowls.

“That was good, Tsukishima,” says Kageyama, “Do that at the training camp in two weeks and you just might win us a point.”

Tsukishima glances at Kageyama, who looks back with conviction. Tsukishima grunts, “Might? I  _ will _ win it, Your Majesty.”

Kageyama snorts, shifting himself back into position. “Whatever.”

“The King is so prickly today,” Tsukishima digs, “Didn’t sleep well last night?”

“Shut up!” Kageyama’s voice carries, despite his best efforts to be quiet. Sawamura is on them in seconds.

“Calm down, you two! Now is not the time!” Sawamura’s hands are on each of their shoulders, pushing them apart until they’re a safe distance from one another. Both Kageyama and Tsukishima relent, though Tsukishima feels a sense of candid glee over a second, albeit smaller, victory on the court.

Tsukishima locks himself into position, now eye to eye with Kuroo, who blazes on the other side of the net. His gaze is red-hot, exuding the kind of laser focus Tsukishima is unaccustomed to seeing. Kuroo’s eyes wander past Tsukishima to where Sugawara is completing his pre-serve routine, and then back. “Nice block earlier,” he says.

Tsukishima is taken aback by his admission, unprovoked and undoubtedly frank. He nods, and Kuroo’s smile is a tiny thing on his face, but even Tsukishima can tell that it’s authentic. Then, Sugawara serves, a satisfying  _ thwack  _ of leather against skin, and the rest of practice is an irretrievable blur.

***

The addition of Coach Ukai brought with it several new members to the team, mostly upperclassmen. Now, with twelve total players, the Karasuno Boys’ Volleyball Team has opened itself up to a wider array of practice drills, the most valuable being six on six. No digging or blocking drill could quite replicate the general atmosphere of a game, but this came close, and Ukai is no stranger to the fact.

Tsukishima’s brain is liquid in his skull as he hobbles off the court. His team had suffered an especially embarrassing loss, but it’s not like the split had been fair, to begin with; pitting Kuroo against Tsukishima, Kageyama against Sugawara, Nishinoya against Sawamura, is both pitiful and irritating.

“We’re nowhere near where we need to be for the training camp,” says Coach Ukai, “Nekoma and Karasuno are old rivals, and while they’ve remained at a competitive level, we have not. I need to see you guys  _ work _ over the next two weeks. Push yourself harder than you ever have. I want you to want it.”

The sound that leaves Tsukishima’s mouth is an unintelligible grouse. His neck feels like a bungee cord, swinging forward and then back, as he crumples onto the bench. The cool metal of his water bottle is all that is keeping him tethered to the present as Ukai garbles on about this and that; the buzzing of a mosquito is more compelling.

“Okay. Go home. Eat something, please. Sleep! I need you to heal before practice tomorrow,” emphasizes the coach.

The boys tiredly shuffle to their feet, and Tsukishima follows, pulling his black Karasuno jacket over his thick long sleeve. It’s April, and while most have begun to embrace the warmer evenings, Tsukishima still feels a biting chill in the air, one that won’t subside until well into June. 

“Ready?”

Tsukishima squints up at Yamaguchi’s voice, standing when he catches sight of him. “Yeah.”

Moments pass, and they’re outside, the sun sinking confidently behind high pink clouds. “Tsukishima? Yamaguchi! Hey, guys, wait!”

Tsukishima startles to a stop, then turns to see Kuroo, who’s waving his arm. His hair, somehow, is as tall and spiky as ever, despite the grim practice. “Do you guys need a ride? My grandpa’s gonna come pick me up in a minute. I’m taking Tanaka, too, so it’s no big deal.”

Yamaguchi lights up, the lines of exhaustion on his face contorting into relief. “Actually, that sounds ama—”

“We’re fine, Kuroo. We walk home together every day,” Tsukishima interrupts, already turning back towards the sidewalk.

“Wait, dude, what?” Yamaguchi pursues Tsukishima, swiveling around once, in his haste, to shoot a  _ Sorry, man, thank you for offering! _ to Kuroo, who stares after the pair, his face unreadable.

“Tsukki! Are you okay? What was that all about?” Yamaguchi’s voice is as gentle as ever, his firm stare more bewildered than angry. 

“Didn’t feel like it,” is Tsukishima’s nonchalant response. He crosses his arms against his chest to protect against the cool breeze, the straps of his backpack and gym bag digging into the bones of his shoulders. The pink sky is rapidly darkening to indigo, and with each breath, Tsukishima’s lungs wail in protest. 

“Oh, but you felt like walking in the dark for twenty minutes while your legs feel like they’re falling off?”

Tsukishima shrugs, “I like the fresh air.”

“Sure, but you hate the cold. And right now,” Yamaguchi whips out his phone, unlocking the screen so that he can slide his finger to the weather app, “it’s six degrees outside. I bet Kuroo’s car had a heater.”

“That’s nice,” says Tsukishima absently. Despite the fatigue working its eager way into his body, his mind is galloping at full speed, so hurried that Tsukishima can hardly keep up. He remembers the look on Kageyama’s face, so unlike the general discomfort, or haughty sense of superiority, that always appeared to plague him. He seemed, for the first time, almost comfortable around the team, around Tsukishima, no matter the insults that they hurled at one another. It’s as if he was beginning to get over the resentment for this bottom-tier team that he had possessed when he first stepped into the gym in March.

And Kuroo. Winning that joust was exhilarating; Tsukishima had to admit it, even if it pained him to. Kuroo took the loss with stride, like he does with everything. Kuroo is gradually growing into himself amidst this unfamiliar environment, and it’s clear that everyone at Karasuno adores him; whether it’s Hinata, or Nishinoya, or the gaggle of girls that seem to have taken an unprecedented, and suspicious, interest in volleyball. He’s new to Miyagi, new to Karasuno, but he fits in better than Tsukishima could ever hope to. It’s bothersome, to say the least.

Yamaguchi’s blinks are confused as he watches Tsukishima slowly disengage with the conversation. However, clarity quickly returns to his features as he says, “You’re always acting so weird around Kuroo. And Kageyama, too. Kageyama especially! Did they do something to piss you off?”

Tsukishima shakes his head, even as his hands curl into tight fists within the sleeve of his jacket. “What does it matter?”

“You’ve got to try harder to get over whatever’s bothering you. Cooperation is important. We don’t have to be best friends with these guys, but some level of bonding is important for the overall team dynamic,” is what Yamaguchi tells him.

“You definitely stole that line from Takeda,” says Tsukishima, “And, besides, what does it matter? It’s not like I’m gonna be getting any playing time.”

Yamaguchi’s sigh is one of understanding. “So. You’re jealous.”

“Jackass! I am not!” Tsukishima’s indignation draws Yamaguchi into a fit of laughter, so loud it scares away the stray calico that had darted up behind them.

“Oh, my God, you totally are.”

Tsukishima rolls his eyes. Yamaguchi shakes out his arms as he keeps pace with Tsukishima’s long strides, saying, “It doesn’t matter. You’re good.  _ Really _ good. And you’re gonna keep improving.” He smiles. “Hopefully, so will I.”

Tsukishima doesn’t say anything, but he nods, one quick jerk of his head, before they walk on in easy silence.


	3. Chapter 3

Nekoma is due to arrive at Miyagi in two days for Karasuno’s first training camp, however small it may be, and Tsukishima is a quiet bundle of nerves. It’s his first dip into a real competition, and the fact that it is both friendly and informal hardly leaves an impression. The stakes, to Tsukishima, are always high, not when it comes to volleyball, per se, but his own general performance. His hands pick at a thread that has come loose from his shirt, and he can’t help but wince as he replays his missed serves from yesterday’s practice. He smiles gratefully, however, when his mother sets a steaming bowl of egg and miso soup in front of him. “Have some,” she says, sitting down beside him with her own portion, “You’ve hardly been eating.”

“Thanks,” he murmurs, “Smells good.”

Her smile is a thing to behold. “Watch out,” she says as Tsukishima lifts a spoonful to his mouth, “it’s hot.”

Tsukishima nods in thanks, blowing at the liquid the best he can. The soup is salty, but light enough that even he can stomach a full bowl this early in the morning. “Tastes even better than it smells.”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” his mother’s hand is a soothing force as it rubs up and down his back. Mornings in Miyagi are still stiff and chilly, and Tsukishima can feel himself shivering despite his mother’s warm touch. “You cold?”

“A little,” Tsukishima says. He softens as he watches his mother light the  _ hibachi _ under the table. 

“Let me get you a blanket,” she says, and stands up to do just that.

The blanket his mother wraps around his legs and socked feet is a patchwork of color, segments of felt, wool, and cotton stitched haphazardly together, then reinforced with a duvet-like material underneath. It’s an old blanket, one that has seen and brought a lot of comfort. His eye is immediately drawn to faded red marker in one corner, shaky  _ kanji _ spelling out  _ I love my big brother _ . 

He blinks, then folds the blanket over his torso, watching as the words disappear. Out of sight, but certainly not out of mind.

“Are you alright? You seem pale,” his mother reaches over to feel his forehead, then cups his cheek, “Do you want me to turn the heat up?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” he responds, “Just nervous, I guess.”

“About the training camp?”

_ Yes _ , he thinks, but says, “Not really. I have an English test today.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” she says, “When you’re not at practice, you’re studying. You’ll be just fine.”

Tsukishima hums, but his guts are a mess of anxiety and irritation, a crude mixture he itches to expunge from his body. “Practice takes a lot out of me,” he warily divulges, and his mother, his dear, wonderful mother, catches onto the shift in his mood without needing to be prompted. “Makes studying hard.”

“Are you not enjoying yourself?” She asks, and it’s so open, as unfailingly receptive as she always is, that Tsukishima finds himself wanting to talk.

“Not exactly,” is what he says, “It’s alright. But, Kuroo’s working me to the bone.”

“Kuroo? That’s the transfer student, right?” Her hand is mesmerizing on his back as she draws it in perfect, tender circles.

“Yeah, that’s him. He’s a middle blocker, too, and so good it’s almost unbelievable. Trying to keep up is impossible.” Tsukishima feels strange, all of a sudden, and he huddles deeper under his blanket, soup all but forgotten.

“Does he really make you feel that small?” Her voice, too, seems to shrink with each word.

“Not small, no. More like . . . it finally clicked, you know? I know now what the perfect middle blocker looks like, and it looks nothing like me.”

“Kei, my angel, it kills me that you don’t see how good you are. Kuroo’s talent doesn’t automatically cancel out yours. I see how hard you work, even when you try to downplay it. You have so much to give, and my job is to make sure you receive the love and support you need to be able to do that. Do your best, always, but don’t kill yourself in the process. It’s okay to come second, or third, or fourth. You get that, don’t you?” Her voice is unwavering, and it washes over Kuroo like a mild, balmy bath in the dead of winter. He nestles closer to her, smiles when he smells her breezy shampoo. It’s delicate flowers under a cordial blue sun, so deliciously familiar. He breathes out, and finally lets himself relax.

“Thank you.”

***

Practice is unremarkable. Coach Ukai isn’t quite as ruthless today, mainly in fear of injury so close to their first set of practice games, but he doesn’t really let up, either. Tsukishima’s knees are beginning to bruise, angry splotches of red and purple as he pulls his knee pads down to his ankles. He’s not sure how Nishinoya deals with this level of battery on a daily basis.

The water break is only supposed to be five minutes long, but Kuroo has somehow attracted a sizable chunk of the guys to his immediate periphery, and they watch, entranced, as he talks. Tsukishima has never seen him like this, so at ease, fully in his element among boys he’s known for only the better part of two months.

The gym is small, and Kuroo is loud. His voice is the kind that commands attention, a low, lazy drawl that pulls you in. Even from the bench, where Tsukishima is sprawled, the body of his voice is apparent. It dawns on him, then, that Kuroo is talking about Nekoma. Makes sense. “You guys are going to love Nekoma,” is what Tsukishima hears, “Maybe I’m biased because they’re my friends, but playing with them, and getting to know them, were some of the best moments of my life. Not that playing with you guys is terrible, or anything,” he rushes to correct. The sheepish look on his face sends a jolt down Tsukishima’s back. Damn. “You guys are awesome, too.”

“Hell yeah we are!” Hinata cheers, and even Kageyama cracks a smile, if you can call the odd turn of his lips that. 

Kuroo smiles. “I miss them. It’ll be amazing to be able to play with them again.”

“Don’t get soft on us, now,” Tanaka humors, “you’re playing on our side, remember! No funny business. We gotta pull all the stops if we want to beat them, and that includes you.”

“Of course,” says Kuroo, and he looks embarrassed, almost meek. It’s so alien to Tsukishima, seeing that easy comfort between Kuroo and the team falter. He is reminded, once again, of the barrier that exists among them. It has certainly thinned, but it’s  _ there _ , and at times like these, it’s obvious, suffocatingly so. It’s unlikely Kuroo will ever feel at home here the way he did at Nekoma.

Coach Ukai’s booming voice shatters the weird energy that had settled over the team. “Alright, enough chit chat! Pull yourselves together! We’re doing Butterfly. Kageyama and Sugawara setting, the rest of you, split into two groups. Come on! Hustle!”

Tsukishima pulls himself to his feet, wincing as he does so. The sweat on his skin has dried to a tacky film, and with the adrenaline draining away, he feels hollow, like there’s a stream of air underneath his skin that keeps him upright, and little else. His goggles dig into his skin, and as he adjusts them, Kuroo catches his eyes. He offers a smile, an attempt to be encouraging, no doubt. Tsukishima scowls, and powers forward, getting in line behind Ennoshita. Whatever.

***

For the training camp, Karasuno, Tsukinokizawa, and Nekoma were arranged to stay at Karasuno Sougou Sports Park. It’s three-thirty in the morning, and Tsukishima is packing the last of his belongings as his mother watches from his doorway. “Did you get your toothbrush?” She asks.

Tsukishima nods. “Yeah, I got toothpaste, towels, my uniform, shoes . . . ” he trails off, scanning his surroundings to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. 

“Come here,” she says, and he turns to see his mother, outlined in yellow as light streams in from the living area into his dark bedroom. She looks like an angel, and Tsukishima walks into her arms, places her head on his chest. 

After a moment, Tsukishima takes a slow step back so he can fully see her glowing face. “You sure you’ll be okay alone?”

“Of course. You’re off at school most days, anyways. I’ve learned how to keep myself entertained,” she teases. Tsukishima smiles, and his duffel bag crackles as he tugs on the zipper, finally satisfied with what he’s decided to take with him. It’s heavy, but he manages to cross the strap over his shoulder and chest, balance the weight in a way that won’t hurt him.

“Try not to miss me too much,” he says, leaning down to plant a kiss on his mother’s cheek. Her laugh is huffy gasp, and it makes Tsukishima laugh, too.

“Make sure you eat,” she says, “and sleep. No staying up late before any big games!”

Tsukishima’s snort is emphatic, but he tugs his mother towards him into another embrace. “Sure thing.” 

***

Karasuno is losing, and there’s nothing Tsukishima can do about it.

Before the game began, Coach Ukai listed off the starting lineup, one he was unsurprisingly certain of. “Kageyama, setter. Azumane, outside. Kuroo, middle. Hinata, right side. Tanaka and Sawamura, back row. Nishinoya, libero. If we win the coin toss, Kageyama gets first serve, so make sure that happens.” Tsukishima was not expecting to hear his name, but the absence still cuts into him before he forces himself to get over it.

Kuroo tries to meet his eyes after the fact, but Tsukishima avoids them. He can’t handle pity, especially not from Kuroo, and not in that manner. Instead, he sat himself down on the bench and hasn’t moved since.

They lose the coin toss. This kid with a yellow mohawk served first, and Tsukishima watched the Cats gradually pick apart the Crows, increasing in pace until it was a massacre. It’s funny, because Nekoma is an unsuspecting team, no more impressive than Karasuno appears to be. Their setter is short and slow, and none of their players are particularly enormous or aggressive. That’s what makes them so terrifying; they’re sly and adaptive, and they sneak up on you in ways you can never expect. Nekoma is a pot of water, steadily being brought to a boil, and Karasuno is the lobster trapped beneath the lid.

Hinata is demolished by their blockers, and his frustration emanates from the court like some kind of toxic waste, permeating the entirety of the gym. Azumane gets a few hits in, on occasion, but those points barely make a dent against Nekoma’s substantial lead. Even Kuroo struggles against boys he’s played with for years, and Tsukishima is reminded of what Ukai had said earlier; one player does not make a team. That is certainly proving true.

Nekoma is beating Karasuno to a pulp in that understated way of theirs, and none of them can hold it together. Panic does nothing but disassemble a team already in shambles, and Tsukishima can feel himself cringe as Nekoma serves, and it shanks off of Nishinoya’s arm, soaring far right until it glances off the wall. An ace. And, just like that, Nekoma wins, perhaps in the most depressing way possible.

Tsukishima, alongside Yamaguchi and the rest of the bench, rise to their feet to line up with the starters. They bow, and shake hands, and Tsukishima feels like he’s on autopilot. Like his soul has left his body, and is floating above him somewhere, watching and laughing at this pathetic sight. His skin crawls, more from discomfort than anger or disappointment. Hinata is crying, the snotty, ugly kind, and Tsukishima can’t help but wonder  _ why _ ; did he really come here with the expectation of besting Nekoma? Of all teams? It’s so absurd that, as they walk off court, Tsukishima is caught smiling.

“What’re you so happy about?” Yamaguchi gripes, “We just got our asses handed to us.”

“Nothing,” Tsukishima says, “Just funny that we thought we had a chance.”

“We did,” Yamaguchi replies, “We have Kuroo  _ and _ Kageyama. We totally had a chance, they just caught us off guard.”

“Too bad the team isn’t just the two of them.”

Yamaguchi hums. “I dunno, man. The rest of us aren’t that bad, either. I honestly think that we can start winning, we just have to keep trying. That’s all.”

“I guess.” Tsukishima sits on the bench, tugs his shoes and knee pads off, replacing them with the slides he brought with him. His sports goggles are dragged off in favor of his black-framed glasses, and he pulls his Karasuno jacket over his uniform. What a waste.

“Kuroo looks like he’s having fun,” says Yamaguchi, “Must be nice to get over the loss that quickly.”

“A win for Nekoma is still a win for him,” Tsukishima hears himself say, “Karasuno’s been his team for two months. Nekoma has been his for years. He has to feel some kind of pride over their win, even if he was technically playing against them.”

“You’re right,” Yamaguchi says, and they both watch as Kuroo laughs at something Nekoma’s setter said. They’re situated at the far side of the gym, but the sound carries, and it’s like everyone is watching them. The setter looks like he’s moments away from passing out, but he still makes an effort to keep Kuroo engaged. They must be close.

“Wait,” Yamaguchi sounds pensive, “Why is Hinata going over there?”

“Hm?”

“Does he know someone at Nekoma?”

Tsukishima’s gaze is drawn to where Hinata was just seconds ago. It was hard to miss the frenzied argument taking place between Hinata and Kageyama; where the two get this much energy, especially after such a grueling game, will always be a mystery to Tsukishima.

Hinata, now, has joined Kuroo and the setter, and Tsukishima watches as the three of them fall into one another, curiosity melting into understanding, then camaraderie. It’s so easy for Hinata, with his trusting innocence and boisterous personality, to bring people into his orbit. First Kuroo, and now that setter. It’s impressive, and something Tsukishima could never do.

“Clearly he knows their setter,” says Tsukishima.

Yamaguchi’s nod is thoughtful. “That’s cool. You hungry?”

“No,” says Tsukishima, but he follows Yamaguchi out of the gym for the post-game lunch, casting one last look at the trio, shoving one another and giggling like children. Whatever.


	4. Chapter 4

In one week, the competition brackets for the Spring Interhigh qualifiers will be announced. Coach Ukai is more than aware of that fact, and the team isn’t progressing at all the way he’d hoped they would. He’s never malicious, but he’s always red in the face, shouting until sweat beads at his temples. Tsukishima’s sure that he’s seen a purple forehead vein appear every now and then, amidst the rage, especially when he has them play six on six.

Now, though, none of that rare glee is anywhere to be found. Tsukishima is particularly frustrated, since he has had continuous trouble blocking against quick attacks. No matter how early he begins his approach, he’s always half a second too late, and Hinata’s hits have grazed his one of his middle fingers, at the very same spot, so many times that it’s a wonder he hasn’t lost his nail yet.

When they switch sides on court, Tsukishima is given a moment to breathe, and he watches Kuroo fill in the space he leaves behind. His posture is perfect, his stance stable yet flexible, and there’s this type of hard determination in his eye, a glint of pure, brute strength. When he jumps, it’s some type of miracle, and Tsukishima feels like a bucket of ice water has been dumped over his head.

Kuroo’s as fast as Hinata, no,  _ faster _ , when he jumps, and the sound of the ball smashing against his forearms as he blocks is cataclysmic. Tsukishima ears ring. It’s like the world is ending, but Tsukishima is handed a precious gem, a rare moment of clarity; he’s reminded of the feeling of waking up, his surroundings a series of shadows and wobbly lines, sharpening into focus when he finally puts his glasses on. Yes. It’s exactly that feeling.

The cheering subsides, and Coach Ukai looks pensive, his grimace slightly less severe than it was a moment ago. “Take five,” he says, and the boys rush to their water bottles.

Tsukishima swallows, eyeing where Kuroo is sat on the bench, nursing his bottle while Nishinoya gestures excitedly beside him. He always lets his pride, that constant whorl of self-defense, guide his actions, and it takes everything in him to step over it, leave it behind, if only for a few moments. Tsukishima squares his tense shoulders, then stands to his full height, his shadow dragging behind him.

“Kuroo,” he grits out, “Do you have a moment?”

Kuroo looks up at Tsukishima, his head eclipsing the overhead lights, forcing Kuroo to squint. Tsukishima is witness to Kuroo’s face as it performs a set of elaborate alterations, pure stupefaction becoming confusion, then, somehow, joy. Like he’s happy Tsukishima approached him, no matter the reasoning behind it.

“Oh. Yeah, I do,” he says, getting up. Nishinoya’s head is cocked, mouth hanging wordlessly open from when he’d been cut off mid-sentence.

“What’s up?” Kuroo asks once they’ve stepped a little ways away. 

“I was watching you block,” says Tsukishima, “and I was wondering if you could help me fix my timing.” He focuses on a point right at the middle of Kuroo’s forehead, and keeps his gaze stationary, unable to meet Kuroo’s animated eyes.

“I can try, but it’s not really something I can explain over a two minute water break.” Tsukishima can hear the smirk in his voice, and it makes his skin feel oddly tight.

“Well. What can I do to improve my speed?”

“It’s all about repetition,” Kuroo says, “I’d be more than happy to help you. If you practice with me, of course.” 

Tsukishima wrinkles his nose. “We practice together six times a week.”

“No,” Kuroo amends, “I mean, like, stay late to practice. Maybe an hour or two after regular practice a couple of times a week.”

“Oh.” Tsukishima envisions blocking for nearly four hours straight, and his legs almost give out at the thought. Jesus.

“I can show you, very quickly, how I time it, but only if you promise to practice with me tonight.”

Tsukishima finally meets his eyes, sees how they’ve narrowed to accommodate his teasing smile. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Kuroo sounds astonished, like it’s the last thing he expected Tsukishima to say. “Really?”

“Yes. Now show me.”

And he does.

***

It’s six in the evening when the last of the boys trickle out, leaving Kuroo, Tsukishima, and Azumane alone in the gym. 

“Thanks for staying to hit for us, man,” Kuroo says, thumping Azumane on the back. Tsukishima winces, using his left hand to rub his right shoulder, almost as a reflex. Kuroo notices the movement, and he winks, which is decidedly disorienting. Tsukishima’s not sure how he feels about any of it.

“I’m happy to,” Azumane responds, “You guys are helping me more than I’m helping you.”

Kuroo nods, “You’re the best.”

Tsukishima turns to wheel the basket of balls closer to center court. “Kuroo, you go first,” he says, “Let me see how you do it.”

Kuroo is more than happy to, and Tsukishima does his best to set the ball in a low, speedy arc. It’s unsteady, but Azumane easily makes up for Tsukishima’s shortcoming, blasting the ball over the net. But, just as it ricochets off of Azumane, Kuroo is there to receive it, and Tsukishima marvels at how Kuroo’s  _ elbows _ are above the net as he jumps. Incredible.

The ball rotates limply on the ground after Kuroo lands, and Tsukishima notices a red mark on Kuroo’s right forearm, like spilled ink, the central place of impact. That means the block wasn’t perfect, because he relied more on his right arm than his left; had he been even a millimeter off, the ball could’ve easily shanked off onto his side. Luck, it seems, always keeps a watchful eye on Kuroo.

He’s fast. He’s tall. He has an innate sense for the game. But, at that very moment, he isn’t perfect.

“Again,” Tsukishima says, and sets the ball into the air.

Kuroo’s approach is faster this time, his positioning done in a way that more proportionately distributes the surface area of his forearms.  _ Bang _ . Impact.

Tsukishima glances at Kuroo’s arms, where they flare red, equally so. It’s perfect.

Damn it.

“Your turn,” Kuroo says. Tsukishima rolls the ball under the net to Kuroo, who absently rubs at each stinging arm. “Remember, this is a quick set, for a quick hit. You should already begin your approach before the ball even leaves my fingers. Short, short, long, jump!”

Tsukishima nods.

Kuroo tosses the ball. Before the ball can meet the triangle of Kuroo’s outstretched fingers, Tsukishima is a vivid blur of motion, his arms swinging as he launches himself towards the ceiling.

Azumane spikes, and Tsukishima misses.

“Fuck.”

“Too early, Tsukishima,” Kuroo offers, “Start when the ball is in my hands, not before.”

Tsukishima is certain his arms, at this point, are more bruise than skin, but he pushes himself, and jumps, jumps, jumps, until he gets it, that delicious shot of momentary pain, of the ball bashing against his palms. 

“Yes!” Kuroo screams, bending so he can cross under the net, over to Tsukishima. He jostles Tsukishima’s shoulder, his fingers digging into the skin beneath the sweaty jersey. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

“Nice one,” Azumane says, his smile gentle, his hair coming loose from its ponytail.

“Thanks,” Tsukishima says, and he means it.

***

“Azumane can’t make it today,” Kuroo says. “He’s got a history exam tomorrow, I think.”

Tsukishima blinks. “Who’s gonna do the hitting?”

“I thought we could focus on the approach itself, today, instead of just timing? We need to nail both if we want to stand a chance blocking against Shiratorizawa. Or Date Tech.” Kuroo stands at the left pole, cranking the silver lever to tighten the net. Tsukishima watches, and says nothing. “Ready?”

Tsukishima’s nod is strained, but he’s here for a reason, so he follows Kuroo to the ten-foot line. 

“Sometimes, you swing your arms forward too early,” Kuroo starts, “That’s dangerous, ’cause you could lose momentum and hit the tape.”

“Right.” Tsukishima sounds petulant, but that’s only because he’s never noticed himself doing that, and Kuroo has. 

“Wait half a second, and swing your arms forward on your second step, okay?”

“Okay.” 

Side by side, Kuroo and Tsukishima begin their approaches, and they jump, arms taut, leaning as far over the net as possible without incurring a foul. Their elbows knock as they land, and Kuroo laughs. The only other sound in the gym is the scuff of their shoes against the worn wooden floor and their heavy exhales.

“Think you can manage that alone, Tsukki?” Kuroo needles.

Tsukishima pushes back. “Don’t call me that. And yes, Kuroo, I can manage just fine.”

Tsukishima holds his breath in his chest, feels it settle. One, two, three. Exhale. He runs, and he jumps.

***

“Good job today,” Kuroo says, “I know we couldn’t do as much without Azumane, but it was fun, right?”

Tsukishima picks up his duffel bag. It’s eight, the sun long gone, and he doesn’t even feel pain anymore. It’s subsided into this dull, all-encompassing numbness. He digs his index and middle fingers into the fleshiest part of his thigh, right below his hip, and experiences nothing but a subtle pressure. He’s going to be so sore tomorrow.

“I guess,” is Tsukishima’s response. He starts for the door, but Kuroo stops him.

“Um, wait. Before you go . . . ” He trails off, points his yellow eyes to the ceiling, then glides them back to fix onto Tsukishima’s. “I got you something to eat. To say thanks for practicing with me.”

Tsukishima frowns. “You’re the one helping me.”

“Sure. But helping you is a way for me to push myself, too, test how well I actually know the game. My intentions aren’t purely altruistic.” Kuroo unzips his bag.

“Oh.”

“Here,” Kuroo hands him a plastic convenience store bag. “Sorry if it’s a little warm and mushy. It’s been in my bag since four this afternoon. You can stick it in the fridge when you get home.”

Tsukishima’s curiosity gets the best of him, so he takes the bag, peers inside. He sees a clear container, and there’s white frosting smeared down one side, but otherwise, it looks pretty good. “Cake?”

“Strawberry shortcake,” Kuroo mumbles.

Tsukishima’s gaze snaps up. He feels unstable, like he’s suspended on a wire, miles above land. “What? How did you know it’s my favorite?”

Kuroo doesn’t say anything. He flashes one of his smiles, as dependable and feline as ever, and leans against the push door. “Goodnight.”

He steps out, and Tsukishima is hit with a blast of cold air before the door thuds to a close. He looks into the plastic bag again, into that container, and stares.


End file.
